CHAPTER 4 Street Office Hero

Patch stood frozen, completely dumbfounded.

He never expected an emergency landing to bring him into this world.

"Marvel world?! Are you seriously kidding me?!" With a sigh of disbelief, Patch staggered back to his room, buried his face in his hands, and let out a shout of despair.

After a moment of trying to make sense of the reality of his situation, his thoughts slowly started to align. Fifteen years of life in this world, and now it hit him: this wasn't a joke—this was the Marvel universe.

"Pit! An unusual pit!"

The first thing that came to Patch's mind was just how outmatched he was in this universe.

Thanos, whose power was on par with the likes of Sargeras, the Lich King? Check. Dormammu, the terrifying ruler of the Dark Dimension who transcends the laws of time itself? Check. Odin, the self-proclaimed King of the Gods? Double-check. And let's not forget the mighty Asgardian warriors who could tear apart entire realms with ease.

Then there was Patch, an untested wizard who had nothing but a basic junior wizarding book. Oh, no—he couldn't even call himself a rookie anymore. In the presence of these beings, even his most basic magic might be obliterated before he could even cast a spell.

And those were just the cosmic powerhouses. The Earth's heroes? They were even more terrifying in their own right.

Tony Stark, aka Iron Man, the brilliant inventor and one of the most influential people on the planet. A genius, a playboy, and—let's be honest—a notorious womanizer, all wrapped up in a suit of near-indestructible armor. With a mind that could solve the universe's greatest mysteries and a wealth of technology at his fingertips, Stark was practically untouchable. Patch couldn't even begin to compete… though, to be fair, he did wonder what it might be like to try.

Then there was Captain America, Steve Rogers, the living legend. A product of the U.S. Army's Super Soldier program, Steve had strength, agility, and endurance that put any normal human to shame. With a shield that could deflect almost anything and decades of combat experience, Captain America was a symbol of resilience and leadership. Patch could probably hold his own in a sparring match, but the chances of winning—especially considering the state he was in—were slim. Maybe in a few years, once he understood real wizardry, he could stand a chance.

Bruce Banner? Or should he say, the Hulk? Let's not even go there. If Hulk ever took a step in Patch's direction, there'd be nothing left of him. Not even a shadow.

The more Patch thought about it, the more absurd the situation became. He was in a world full of gods, monsters, and heroes who could wipe him out with a single thought. And here he was, a wizard with zero experience, wondering how long it would take to even be considered a threat.

Patch really didn't want to think about it anymore. The ideal was beautiful, but the reality was far too heavy.

He feared that his spirit might not be able to withstand such a painful blow.

Looking at the current year, he sighed in relief. Fortunately, there were still a few years before the official plot would begin.

Patch guessed that Tony Stark was still out there, gallivanting across the country, charming women and living a carefree life. Iron Man? Tony would probably just shrug and say, "I don't know".

As for Captain America, he was most likely still frozen under the ice, sleeping soundly, the Tesseract clutched in his arms.

Thor and Hulk were too far removed from Patch's current concerns, so he didn't bother thinking about them.

But there was one organization Patch knew he had to keep an eye on.

The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, better known as S.H.I.E.L.D..

As the most powerful and secretive organization tasked with protecting the world, S.H.I.E.L.D. was everywhere. And their reach was limitless. Patch knew that even in his current state, weak and powerless as he was, he could never afford to provoke them.

Sure, if he mastered the true art of wizardry, perhaps he could take on a few regular S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. But that wasn't the issue. The real problem lay with Nick Fury's top agents: Hawkeye Clint Barton and Black Widow Natasha Romanoff. They were far from ordinary.

"Stay low. Be low-key." Patch muttered to himself.

For now, his goal was to keep a low profile. There was no need to risk his life over something stupid.

Besides, when did he ever possess a super artifact or the strength to reshape the world?

Patch snickered to himself as he daydreamed.

…

Over six months later, Patch, having finally turned sixteen, left the orphanage where he had spent his childhood. He bid a quiet farewell to Priest Magellan and Sister Meiwes, and left with nothing but his luggage and the more than a thousand dollars he had saved up over the years.

He found a modest, run-down apartment in the slums of 13th Street in New York and settled into his new life.

…

That night, Patch was on his usual patrol. As he walked down a narrow alleyway, he spotted a white young man, armed with a dagger, threatening a middle-aged woman.

"Hey, kid, drop your toy. I'm not here to play," Patch said coldly, his voice cutting through the air.

The young man glanced over and sneered. "Cloak man? What are you, a cross-dressing wannabe? What do you want? Others are scared of you, but I'm not..."

Patch's eyes narrowed. "Too much talking. Don't you know that the more the villain talks, the sooner they die?"

Patch sighed, then casually closed the distance between them, walking over in a few steps. He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and whispered softly in his ear.

"Coma."

With a soft thud, the young man collapsed instantly, his body hitting the ground like a ragdoll.

"Ah!" The middle-aged woman screamed, running off in terror, her footsteps echoing into the night.

"Am I really that scary?" Patch muttered, touching his face in confusion. But he shrugged it off. "Whatever. Time to see what we've got tonight."

He knelt down and began rifling through the unconscious young man's pockets.

"Tch. A whole $283? How pathetic," Patch sneered, counting the crumpled bills with disdain.

"You're weak, and you're poor. No wonder you got yourself in this mess," Patch muttered, giving the unconscious man a light kick with his boot.

"Alright, mission accomplished." With the money tucked into his pocket, Patch clapped his hands and said, "Teleport!"

With a loud "bang," a cloud of smoke erupted in the air. When the smoke cleared, Patch had vanished without a trace.

…

On the other side of Thirteenth Street, in a rundown shack, Patch removed his black cloak, tossing it aside. He poured himself a glass of cold water and gulped it down with a few quick swallows before settling in front of a table by the window.

"The Caped Man?"

A cold sweat broke out on Patch's forehead as he recalled the white-haired youth's words.

"Who the hell came up with that nickname? If I find out, they're in for it."

It had been over a year since Patch left the orphanage. Without an education or any marketable skills, he found himself unable to land any decent job.

Patch wasn't interested in the kind of low-paying, manual labor jobs like bricklaying, roadwork, or cleaning that were available to him either.

After some thought, Patch decided to work part-time as an unofficial hero for the Thirteenth Street District—a sort of "temporary vigilante." His method? Targeting robbers and thieves to redistribute wealth, though it was mostly his own impoverished self he was helping.

He chuckled to himself at the thought. "A modern-day Robin Hood... except I'm more 'Hood' than 'Robin.'"

In the months that followed, Patch's actions started to yield noticeable changes. Law and order in his neighborhood had improved significantly.

At first, the local police were puzzled. Complaints and crime reports had dropped significantly.

It wasn't until one day, when a video surfaced showing Patch taking down criminals, that they finally connected the dots. The police realized, much to their surprise, that a self-styled vigilante had been cleaning up Thirteenth Street.

Of course, that's how Patch thought things went.

The truth, however, was different. The NYPD saw Patch's actions as an interference with their work, labeling him a criminal for taking justice into his own hands. A warrant was soon issued for his arrest.

Patch leaned back in his chair, snorting in disbelief.

"All I did was take your jobs. Is it really necessary to make such a fuss over it?"

He smirked and muttered to himself, "If anything, I should be getting an award for 'Best Citizen.'"